Can't Help Fallin' for You
by 4getfulimaginator
Summary: 1950s AU with patient!Emma. The end of the war has brought Killian nothing but more sorrow and pain. When he lands himself in the ER, he finds more than he's ever expected when he meets the Sleeping Beauty in the room down the hall. Captain Swan two-shot originally posted on Tumblr.
1. Can't Help Fallin' in Love with You

**Prompt from _ahookedheart_: **_20 year old Killian breaks his arm falling off his motorcycle (it's the 50's) and he's waiting for his cast to dry. Decides to wander down the hallway, steals a doctor's coat & stethoscope, thinking he's going to mess with some random grumpy old man. (Of course…laying asleep in an Iron Lung is 18 year old Emma Swan) But the person he comes across is this Sleeping Beauty like angel, pale and thin._

**A/N: I changed the prompt a bit, so now have some rather angsty Captain Duckling, with World War II connections.**

* * *

_Can't Help Fallin' in Love with You_

* * *

It had been a hard night. And he still couldn't get the damn image of her out of his mind. _Milah_. Moaning underneath another. In his own fucking bed.

Reaching around to finger the back pocket of his pants, Killian groaned on realizing that the packet of cigarettes he always carried with him were not there. _Figures they were dropped somewhere on the pavement, trampled under passing wheels as he sped away into the night, anxious to drive himself into oblivion as fast and as madly as he could._

"Well, if it isn't the legendary Casanova himself." Oh, he'd know that dry chuckle from anywhere. Looking up, he met Dr. Whale's penetrating stare head-on, daring him to pry further into his affairs. The doctor gave up the fight rather quickly, to Killian's dismay. "What have you done this time, Jones?" he asked with a disapproving sigh.

"Just took my baby out for a run," he grinned sassily, cradling his left arm. "Is there a problem with that, _Doc_?"

The man rolled his eyes and put the chart he had been clutching down on the examining table. "From what my nurse told me ― don't run into her on your way out, by the way ― you seem to have fractured your shoulder, and you could have a break in your lower arm as well."

"Ah, that lovely lass Ruby?" Killian waggled his eyebrows. "Why don't you take her out on the town if you bloody fancy her so much?" He winced when Whale suddenly grabbed his injured hand and started to prod at it. "Bloody hell ― that hurts, you arse!"

The doctor only snorted and continued to poke at him, exposing tender flesh to the cool air. "Hmm...we'll take X-rays first before I decide if you need a whole cast or partial cast for this."

"A whole cast?" Killian gaped at him, growing anxious. "That means―"

"Yeah, yeah ― you wouldn't be able to run your motorcycle into another tree, I know. It strikes you to the core, doesn't it?" Whale retorted sarcastically. "Such limits for the local circus performer of the year."

"Eh, must be why it hurts when I laugh, mate..." he rejoined, scowling at his physician as he proceeded to scribble out instructions, muttering to himself before striding out the door without another word. In turn, Killian sulked, pulling his leather jacket tighter around him. Not only did Milah betray him, but now he would be bedridden for a month.

Thank God for television, takeout, and Jolly Roger rum.

* * *

He didn't feel like talking when Nurse Belle put the finishing touches on his cast, carefully lifting his fractured arm up and into the sling she had tied around his chest. But of course, the bookwork had _loads_ to tell him, like some darn _nanny_. "Now, remember: no washing this area, no touching, and _absolutely_ no scratching."

"But what if I have a terrible itch?" He pouted before grinning at her. "What to do, lass?"

Her blue eyes finally softening, she smiled a little at him. "It's only three to four weeks, Killian ― I think you'll make it." Then she paused, as if contemplating something else. "Why?"

His head snapped up. "Why what?"

"Why do you keep coming here?"

He placed his other hand over his heart after acknowledging that yes, his leftie was immobile. "Darling, I'm wounded. Perhaps this friendly institution feels like home to me."

Belle shook her head at him, scoffing. "I've heard talk about you, Jones ― your frequent visits to the ER have nothing to do with liking a _hospital_." She gave him a pitying frown. "Killian, it's been almost two years...since Liam. You need to move on, dear."

Swallowing a very large lump in his throat, Killian blinked hard, gritting his teeth together to hold back a wave of resentment and regret. "I don't bloody want to," he snapped, glaring at the wall. "I'm not going to just stand here and forget him while his killers live on, and he's..._dead_."

She sat down next to him. "It's a shame, really ― he got a Medal of Honor when the war ended, right? And then..."

"He came back and got himself bloody _killed_ afterward!" His body started to shake. "He survived the entire goddamn _war_ ― Nazis shooting at him right and left, bombs exploding...and then..." He didn't want to speak anymore.

Patting his back, Belle murmured in what was probably meant to be a soothing tone, "Accidents happen―"

"They were bloody _drunk_, and it wasn't a bloody accident!" Killian yelled, yanking himself away from her touch. "All they got was the locker for a few months, while Liam got a fucking heart attack because his arteries were ruined!"

For several moments, he brewed silently, sure she could see the virtual steam coming out of his ears as his anger vibrated off the walls.

But as always, Belle surprised him. "I think you need to come with me."

"Why?" She deserved his defiance, damn it to hell ― and he wasn't the least bit sorry.

"Because there's something you need to see." Her smile was filled with understanding, with bleeding _hope_. Killian huffed. It would be better to just do as she asked now, so she'd leave him alone later. She was one persistent lass ― he'd learned from denying her requests in the past.

Nurse Belle was not to be trifled with. So, trudging along behind her, cast arm swinging lightly, he stifled his pang of longing for his brother and decided that one more day to live was okay.

Life was all he had left, anyway. Everything else that had mattered was gone.

* * *

"How long has she been in the iron lung?" He pressed his face against the glass, awestruck. It didn't matter that her skin was sickly pale, that the hospital gown she wore was frayed and unattractive over a too thin body, that she was asleep and her breathing was still weak, her frail limbs still and limp.

The girl before him was, in a word, stunning. _Blonde tresses strewn about her shoulders, full rose lips, dark eyelashes fluttering over sculpted cheeks. Couldn't be more than eighteen. __Her face...that of a princess. Like straight out of a fairy tale._

Nurse Belle was glancing at her vitals, making sure all was well. "Since she was thirteen. Poor Emma has never been ordinary ― she was admitted when her foster parents found her suffocating on their living room floor. They thought it was seizures, but unfortunately...it wasn't."

His blood turned cold. "You can't be saying she'll have to live in this ― this ― metal_ cage_ until she―"

She didn't look at him when she replied, "Nothing is certain, Killian. She could recover...she could not." Her shoulders slumped. "Out of all of our adolescent patients, she never got to experience high school...her first kiss...her first dance...any of it. She never got to grow up like you did." When he opened his mouth to protest, she raised an eyebrow at him. "Just something to think about, mind you. At least, you had Liam, and you loved him...and he loved you. But Emma Swan here..." She sighed deeply. "She never has any visitors, any family who come to see her...hold her hand... I come sometimes, on my free time or during a break... And I wonder _why_." Biting her lip, she turned to leave.

"Wait." Killian dragged a chair across, positioning it by the iron lung. "Could I...sit awhile? With her?"

Belle nodded at him. "Let me know if anything changes."

When she was gone, the first thing Killian did was take off his leather jacket, drape it on the back of the chair, and get comfortable on the metal structure he loathed. But it was worth it.

He wanted to stay with his very own Sleeping Beauty, though this strange impulse puzzled him beyond measure. Or maybe it was simpler than he believed.

Everyone had abandoned her, like they had done him. _But he wouldn't do that to her._

He would wait and watch. He was no prince, and no kiss would cure her, but still...he could be the person who prayed for her to get better. Talked to her. Listened to her, although she _couldn't _talk to him.

He had wanted something to live for. And now he had found it.

* * *

_SIX MONTHS LATER_

* * *

He awoke to someone frantically tugging on his arm, shaking him desperately. "Killian!"

Blearily, he opened his eyes, yawning widely. "Oh..." His vision cleared. "It's you, Belle. 'Morning, lass."

She pointed at the iron lung. "Dr. Whale just came in ― and he said...he can't understand it..."

His heart leapt into his stomach, and fearing the worst, he ran to the glass opening, peering inside. Green eyes stared back at him, sparkling and _brilliant_.

First, she smiled. The result was so breathtaking, he himself forgot how to inhale.

Then...Emma's lovely lips _moved_.

"Hello, Killian."

* * *

**A/N: Review before the next part?**


	2. Bridge Over Troubled Water

**Prompt from**_** bitt3nswe3t:** Gosh, I think you need to continue [Can't Help Fallin' in Love with You] but in POV of Emma, when she was young, how she felt when she got sick, her hopelessness and than her survival once she felt someone else reach her… It's just from Emma's POV to being a child, finding out she is sick, living under those trapped conditions and how lost and bad she felt when she had her first attack, and how she got better to her being able to finally open up her eyes and think who was the guy talking to me and thus saying hi to the one who brought her back to life._

**A/N: Companion piece to the previous chapter, making this ficlet a two-shot. Unabashed references to Elvis Presley songs in the chapter titles, and World War II references/slang throughout.**

**Thank you, always, for reading.**

* * *

_Bridge Over Troubled Water_

* * *

Emma found it easier to sleep. Sleep was her one route out, where she could imagine things were different, and for a moment, really believe it all to be true. Sleep brought her dreams, and it brought her peace. Of course she would cling to it.

Back in the day, when everyone was still petrified about Pearl Harbor and Japanese invasions and German POWs, she had her own worries as a child. Her legs had started to give her trouble when she was about ten, and then it took three years for her to be finally diagnosed. Three years and her almost _dying_ from not getting enough air into her lungs.

_Constricted to a wheelchair for life_, the doctors told her foster parents. _Her case of polio isn't like the others ― it's affecting her spine. At best, she'll live, but she'll never walk again. At worst..._

Well, she found out all too soon what the _worst_ was.

When she had been confined into the iron lung the first time, she had kicked and screamed throughout the transition, wailing for her long gone parents and demanding to be left alone in her hospital bed, growing hysterical on viewing the metal monster that was about to swallow her whole and not let her out.

They had sedated her before connecting her with the device, and she vaguely remembered switching to another when her "puberty stages" were complete. But even though she had protested the whole procedure, crying weakly as her useless legs couldn't thrash to and fro with the rest of her body, whimpering when she felt that familiar squeeze in her chest and she started to wheeze, what had hurt the most wasn't any of that.

It was hearing the frigid nurses whisper among themselves that she was on government help, that she was a charity case, that she was taking up space meant for soldiers of war, that _thank Lord her guardians had high-tailed it out of here now, because there was no waiting for this one to get well_. A few of the nurses and doctors were kind, but she never really noticed their names, never recalled enough details before the disease would pull her under and she'd slink into unconsciousness, praying that the paralysis would be gone when she'd wake up.

After 235 days, she gave up that hope. Instead, she decided to submit to the darkness, submit to her fate, submit to the despair of never being wanted or loved or needed or useful ― of being a chain, a burden, a wreck. Of being a worthless nothing, rejected since birth.

_If only I hadn't gotten this stupid polio_, she scolded herself at the beginning, struggling to just live.

_If only I had died when the physician first said I could_, she whispered later, imprinting the wish onto her prayers.

And she was still pining for that only release from her pain. There was no point to all this, no purpose in prolonging her suffering. No one was waiting for her to recover, and no one would care if she did. There was no future for her inside the iron lung, and there was none outside of it. Euthanasia sounded so tempting, but she wasn't rich and no medical staff member would break the law just for little poor her ― so she never even dared to make inquiries.

Sometimes, when the lights were out and she had nothing better to do ― _she always had nothing better to do_ ― she'd fantasize how her life would have continued if the polio virus hadn't struck her down. She was just about to enter high school, and four years of learning and growing up meant she could soon be on her own, ruling her own destiny.

Maybe she would have made friends with some girls in her classroom. Maybe she would have been happy, discovering new knowledge about the world. Maybe she would have found out what she loved best to do. Maybe...just maybe...a boy would have liked her, and asked her out on a date, and ― and kissed her. Maybe she would have become beautiful. Maybe she would have excelled in all her classes. Maybe she would have been a top graduate. Maybe she would have landed a scholarship to a great college or university and pursued her career. Maybe her foster parents would have kept her all that time, encouraging her and supporting her and _loving_ her.

_No more maybes. It was impossible. No more wishes._

As she lay there, trapped beneath glass and iron bars, unable to do anything but survive, she tried to think about every single person in the world who was in worse circumstances than she. Worse anguish, worse agony. But it wasn't enough. She'd end up crying, upsetting her caregivers, and she'd be pushed back into an endless void where her brain stood still while all else around her became a formless mass of _unimportant, senseless, ridiculous waste._

Her will to live had died long before her body was cursed into this shell of inactivity. And she had prepared herself a hundred times over for the finale, for the void to claim her completely and leave her motionless flesh behind. Every day was the same monotony, and she hated it. Why should she have to go on for the sake of _morality_, as Dr. Whale so elegantly put it, when there wasn't any goddamn purpose?

As an answer, he'd only scribbled "severe depression" and "anxiety" into her medical chart before sending _psychologist Dr. Archie Hopper_ to her room. Needless to say, his "talks" only did more harm than good.

So after a while, she stopped reasoning with herself and just succumbed to _not_ trying, to sleeping her daily routine away. When her nurse came to check on her vitals, no doubt chirping away about something, Emma was picturing herself in a castle, wandering the halls for more adventures. When the doctor made his appearance, she was in Neverland, teasing the fairy Tinker Bell. During her weekly wash, she'd fly far away into the sky, tumbling down into puffy clouds, and they always caught her when she fell. She was fed through IV constantly, so she hadn't tasted real food or real drink in over half a decade ― and this way, she couldn't starve herself, couldn't refuse this respite.

It was awful.

When the holidays came and she was really left alone, with some new staff member who didn't know her case at all to take over that shift in her ward, she told herself the story of Andersen's little match girl, feeling acute empathy for the orphan who stared through windows with longing at the things she didn't have. At least his fairy tales were consistent, despite being bitter and brutally honest at times. You had to die to get to heaven, and happiness wasn't manufactured on earth but in the heart. If someone broke yours, you'd spend the rest of your life trying to put together the remaining pieces.

Perhaps her parents were dead. Perhaps they were happy in heaven. Perhaps they would come for her, she promised herself, and take her with them.

She always cried so hard when Christmas morning found her and that vow never came true.

Of course she felt herself changing over the years ― aching pains and stretching in odd places, the development of her sensitive parts, the age-old transformation of young girl to young woman. She hated it passionately, despising her body more and more with each passing day. When she turned seventeen and the nurses informed her "the worst was over" ― _there was no point in wishing her a happy birthday anyway_ ― her mind leaped to another conclusion.

She'd heard about hypnosis when she was younger, was fascinated with street magicians and the like. If she focused very hard on convincing herself that she wasn't really living ― that she was just a ghost, wandering the world in search of peace ― it could happen.

That year, in one minute, she had a new goal.

It was easier to let go and have waves of nothingness crash over her.

It was easier to surrender to what was coming, because then there would be no suspense, no fear, no anguish.

Just anticipation for ultimate freedom. The freedom she'd never had.

Because she hoped ― _oh, how she hoped_ ― that like the little match girl, someone who truly loved her would be waiting for her on the other side, bringing her to _home_.

* * *

That voice belonged to a boy ― she was sure of it.

Well, not a boy ― _he_ sounded mature enough. Deep and rich, like sweetest chocolate. Crisp and mellow like tart apples. Pungent and fresh like all the scents of the sea. Spicy like the tropical winds.

She was beyond curious as to who was speaking, because her brain was whirling with ideas, more feverish and active than it had been for so, so long.

She was about to open her eyes when the voice became clearer, and she could distinctly hear some of the words the man said. On second thought, why should she see him? He could be a figment of her delirious imagination, so hungry for company that it screamed for it at times...and then again, if real, he could be another disappointment, like all the rest.

No, better to keep her eyelids shut tight. Better to let him abandon her like all the rest, tire of her while she was unaware of the reality of him.

He could be just a breath of wind, another character to add to the bedtime stories she whispered to herself at night.

So, at first, Emma Swan did what she did best: she ignored the strange, _incognito_ visitor, and pretended he wasn't there.

_Go away and leave me alone._

_Leave me alone to die._

_Just like everyone else has._

_You won't be different._

_You can't be._

* * *

"Hi." Oh, it was _him_ again. What the hell did he think ― that she would wake up and open her mouth and _talk_ to him? "It's...uh...me. Killian Jones." There seemed to be some background noise, like the odd shuffle and scrape. "Since you're asleep...I thought...I'd let you know...that today...I, um, brought you flowers." _Oh, he was shy, was he?_

If she was willing to pull herself from her dreams, she would snort aloud at that. _Idiot_. Blearily, she squinted at what was a flash of pink and scarlet red before the colors vanished.

"They're...they're carnations," came Jones' unmistakable lilt, stammering more than before. "My mum loved them ― said they were classy and you could really sink your nose into them, unlike with roses, which are always full of bugs. 'Pity they don't smell better,' she used to say." An awkward chuckle later, she heard a thump. "Just putting these in a cup for you ― tomorrow, I'll bring you a vase. A real one." God, now he sounded so pleased with himself. _Smug bastard._

Emma growled inwardly. She didn't want him here. She wanted him to get out and stop this nonsense. She wanted to never imagine his face around here again―

"Swan... Can I call you Swan?" he interrupted, as if guessing her reaction without knowing it. "I know you won't respond. I know you can't. But Nurse Belle said that...you were lonely, I was lonely...that maybe we could be lonely together." He tried to laugh, but it was sad and strained. "I...I don't really know what I'm doing here, actually. Just felt this pull...this need to sit down. Here. Next to you. Do you mind, lass?"

The chair that was always in her room for no purpose suddenly had one. He was dragging it across the floor, making a terrible screeching sound.

"Sorry," he muttered afterwards. "If you _can_ hear me."

Then, when she expected him to jabber on and on about more drivel, he was silent. And she got worried ― about what, she had no clue.

"It will be ten years this month since my mum died. Pa enlisted right when the war broke out, deserted...got caught by the Jerries while on the run. Died somewhere in action in Europe. Never found his body." He audibly gulped. "And Ma...well, she never quite gave up on him. When the army came to pay their respects, she didn't believe them. But when Liam ― my brother ― signed up for the Navy one week later...she broke."

Emma bit back a rise of bile and saltwater up her throat.

"Nur–_Belle_ said you're an orphan too. Can't see your eyes ― though I'm sure they're lovely, like the rest of you ― but you probably have that look in them as well. The look that says you've been left alone." Then he sighed, the rough exhale echoing against the wall. "Damn it, I'm rambling. Can't even bloody keep my wits about me..."

_Killian Jones_ didn't say much more after that. In fact, she imagined he'd taken off for good. This wasn't his goddamn confessional, after all ― and she wasn't some priest he could pour his heart out to. If he needed counsel, Dr. Hopper was probably unoccupied during his lunch break in Room 115.

* * *

When she woke up the next morning, it was to an interim of silence and solitude, one that lasted the whole day and night. There was just the usual check-ups, the usual hustle and bustle, the _tick-tock_ of the clock on the wall.

But the morning after that, she felt like unprepared prey, ensnared in a net of circumstances. The moment she recognized the sound of a voice talking, it was very obvious she wasn't the only person present. _Please be the nurse, please be the nur― _

"Found the thing in the back of the cupboard, believe it or not...was Ma's favorite, so it's one of the few things of my folks that I kept..." trilled his lilt.

_God no._ If she had a pillow, she would smother herself in it.

"And I got some daffodils I saw growing by the side of the road to keep the carnations on their toes."

What was _wrong_ with him that he persisted in annoying the hell out of her? Well, hypothetically, since he obviously thought she was unconscious.

"I remembered that I haven't introduced myself properly. I mean...I know some about you, but you don't know a thing about me. I, uh, work in a factory at night...making car parts and the like. Would like to be an auto mechanic someday, but I can't afford the training right now." He cleared his throat pointedly. "I, um, couldn't come here yesterday because I was...busy... Throwing my girlfriend out of my apartment. _Ex_-girlfriend, actually."

She thought she heard him curse, quite colorfully, under his breath, but then he was again pulling up her chair next to the iron lung and sitting beside her, the tell-tale signs stealing her attention.

"I found her cheating on me when I came home in the morning...that same day I first met you." Dry chuckles resounded. "Rolling with another man under _my_ sheets ― bloody pathetic, it was, the way she begged me to understand." Heavy, hard breaths now. Emma involuntarily bristled. "Seems I'm never enough...that I'll never be enough. For anyone."

What could be minutes or hours passed by before he said, "And I even got that bloody tattoo on my wrist with _her_ name on it ― and broke it in two, to boot. My arm will be bloody useless for a month." A series of groans erupted. "Sometimes, Swan...I'll admit...I can be a daft moron. Just don't tell Dr. Whale that, or he'll laugh his bloody head off."

_Your secret's certainly safe with me._ She tried to roll her eyes, but it hurt too much.

Jones was distracting himself by pacing about and peeking at her chambers' accessories. "No bloody television, lass? What a shame." Something crashed onto the floor. "Oh, bloody hell!"

She stifled an errant giggle in her throat and then was shocked at herself. No, he did _not_ just made her want to laugh. Nobody could do that. Nobody had in years.

"Hullo, what do you know ― an extra stethoscope. Oh, and a doctor's coat ― well, that's just swell." In her mind's eye, he was putting on both, giving the instrument a twirl and the coattails a definite flourish. Then, in mock seriousness, he arched a brow and murmured in a very gravelly tone, "Why, Miss Swan...meet your new on-call physician."

When his antics became even more dramatic and he started to really play dress-up, envisioning all kinds of crazy scenarios in which he either saved the day or kissed the heroine (he always said that was her ― _naturally_), she wondered if he was a teenager or an adult, a child or a grown-up.

"If you're pouting over there, love, thinking I'm being ridiculous," he called, sliding on the meticulously waxed floor in nothing but his socks, no doubt, "don't be. We're all young at heart, after all!"

Then she really wondered ― but not about his true age. Instead, she tried her best to picture his grin, the one she heard in his tone when he wanted to "turn her frown upside down."

That small romantic piece of her that still existed sighed. Killian Jones' smile was probably perfect. And just maybe it was cute.

But the man in question was here because he felt sorry for her, not because he liked her. He didn't know her. He was probably just hurt over losing his girlfriend and breaking his arm, so he had decided to spend his free time in a _hospital_ instead of at _home_, like normal people did.

This was a pity party, and she was the star of it. It would do her a world of good to keep that in mind every time he came to visit her.

He might as well be talking to the wall, because he wasn't really talking to _her_.

For him, she was a marble statue encased in glass, unable to speak or think or feel for herself. She was his doll, and when he got tired of playing with her, this...one-sided _camaraderie_ would be over.

There just wasn't any dollhouse or _family_ or happy endings in the cards for Emma Swan. And love was as distant from her as the night stars.

* * *

It took a month of almost daily, impromptu calls to convince her that Killian wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He was as determined as she was hopeless, and though she hated how he had interrupted her plans to die in peace, she couldn't help but like how he always managed to surprise her.

Even though he _knew_ she wouldn't and couldn't respond to any of it. Even though she'd never even _seen_ him, his face or his person or any of him. Naturally, it wasn't for a lack of trying on his part; it was because she refused to spoil her daydreams by being confronted with the truth.

He would read her aloud to her from books of old on rainy days ― but only novels that both of them could enjoy. She could just see him making faces during romantic scenes, and she loved how his voice changed to humor the comic relief character that granted them more than a few laughs. His narration was as spell-binding as the words of the stories themselves, so much so that she wished she could reach out and capture those moments and hold them intact in her memory forever.

When he let it slip once how his brother Liam had met a similar fate like one of the book's main characters ― _he was a war hero and devoted son and a stubborn arse but a bloody _good_ man_ ― she had felt, for the first time, the desire to hug him in comfort. And she _never_ liked hugging _anyone_. Ever.

Next was a record player and his hoard of music that made her feel like dancing and crying and swooning, all at once. And Emma Swan _never_ felt the urge to _swoon_. Never.

Then he made the nurses bring in a used television set into her room after insisting that "the princess and her knight need entertainment." Judging by the titters of the women, he was not the kind of guy who gave that kind of impression on sight. That made her even more intrigued about him, especially when he quoted lines from "Casablanca," a film she had seen only once in the cinema theater when enemy aircraft was whizzing about the Allies in Europe and everyone needed a lift from the air of gloom that had settled down onto the entire world. A film he made sure she "saw" again, turning on the volume of the box until the actors' dialogue filled the empty room.

_This could indeed be the start of a beautiful friendship, Swan_, Killian teased her once. _You and me, invalids and allies in our shared misery. However, I confess I'm much better looking than that Bogart chap ― and I'm always a gentleman._

She'd really rolled her eyes at that.

Then he had whispered, so softly, _And even better...I have a much more lovely lass than Ingrid Bergman by my side._

Deep within, somewhere she knew not, a jolt rushed through her, fierce and unstoppable. It wasn't his flowery phrases or how his accent trembled on certain vowels and letters, lengthening them into notes of a song. It wasn't that at all.

It was the stark horror of acknowledging that she had not only grown to like him...but she had also grown terribly attached to him.

_Wanting_ him here with her. _Needing_ his monologue, which had proven to be unselfish on his part. _Liking_ him, as a person. Because he had, to coin a phrase, wormed his way into her heart ― like the pirates he so admired, plundering their way across the seas.

Realizing that he was her _friend_, and that fantasy or not, loneliness or not...he wanted to be here too. If this had been some role-playing farce he had conjured up, he would have been gone from her life right after his cast came off.

But he hadn't. He had stayed. He'd done everything short of daredevil stunts to try and entertain her, keeping her company and _whole_ and _wanted_ like no one else had.

This was the start of _something_, indeed.

* * *

"No ― no, she can't. No, you must do something ― anything ― _please_."

"Killian... You don't understand. Her muscles don't _work_. That's why she's in the iron lung ― because she wouldn't be able to _breathe_ without it!"

There was a violent smash, like a wall being smacked...or a certain vase being broken. "Isn't that why you're all _here_, goddamn it? To _help_ her? To _save_ her?"

"Yes, but I can't do the impossible ― I'm a doctor, not a miracle-worker! And Emma, in her condition, was always destined to―"

"_Don't you dare say it_," he hissed. "She won't _die_. She can't. _I won't bloody let this happen!_"

That was Dr. Whale, alright, sounding as tired and professional as ever. "Killian...calm down. She has no family, so I thought I would trust you with this. I thought...that since you've been here all these months...that you'd want time to say good-bye." He huffed. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing more we can do for her. Her body's weakening every day, and it's only a matter of time before even this machine won't be able to do the trick."

Before, such news would have made her happy. Happy, because _finally_, she was going _home_.

But how could she be glad, when the reason for her being happy all these days was sitting in the chair next to her, his barely muffled sobs tearing at her, sending currents of pain and fear and regret in spasms that wracked her body?

No, she was _devastated_. Death meant leaving behind Killian Jones. And if Death came for her, she'd never have to chance to tell Killian ― to show him―

Black spots filled her vision, and her lungs squeezed and squeezed until she was choking.

The last noises she heard were Killian's hoarse shouts and the heart monitor beeping wildly.

* * *

_That was a strange dream. Very strange. She wasn't a princess. He wasn't a pirate. And they were no fairy tale characters out of a wondrous, magical book. Once upon a time, they were both broken. Everyone in his family was dead ― his beloved brother, mother, and the father that had left them behind. She never had a family to begin with..._

"―He can't understand it―"

_Wait, she knew that voice. So she wasn't in heaven, because there was no way everyone in the hospital was dead. _

"Emma..."

_And God, she knew this voice too. He was wonderful ― and she just had to see him ― just once―_

Struggling, she forced her eyelids to open, blinking rapidly before her blurry vision parted and she saw _him_.

She was wrong ― Killian _was_ like a pirate. He was wearing a daunting leather jacket, the makings of his beard were trimmed in a fashion that he knew was dashing, and he even had a small earring in one ear, rebellious as always. His face was remarkably handsome, and wide blue eyes stared at her in disbelief, and on seeing his shaky faith in her survival, she drew in a breath, hoping for his gaze to soften. In the beginning, he had driven her crazy, but that hadn't stopped her from loving him for his persistence, his gentleness, his understanding.

So she said hello. It was only a hello, a small greeting after so much time spent together.

_Oh my God, what if he didn't like the sound of her voice? He'd never heard her― _

The way he'd cradled her in his arms after Nurse Belle had opened the iron lung, allowing Emma to sit up for the first time in years, spoke to the contrary.

* * *

He carried her to her new room like a prince would, his embrace firm and warm and caring.

He tucked her into her new hospital bed, his hands lingering on her cheeks and her hair.

He looked at her as if she were his queen, as if she were giving him more light than the sun itself.

He assured her the doctors had said the polio was mysteriously in remission and she would never need the iron lung again. _That's my lass ― always such a fighter. _He didn't bat an eyelash when she revealed that she'd been listening to him since the first day he'd entered her room ― but she poked him hard when his smirk was a bit too smug.

When Nurse Ruby stuck her head through the door and announced that visitor's hours started again tomorrow at nine in the morning, Killian nodded, leaning down to kiss Emma on the forehead. She turned her head so he could find her lips instead.

And that's how she got her first kiss. It was as amazing as she'd always imagined, she running her fingers through his dark hair while he tasted her mouth as carefully and thoroughly as he could.

But the best was when Killian had paused by the door, looked back at her with a huge smile, and said the five words she'd sworn she'd never hear anyone say.

_Emma Swan, I love you._

* * *

Two weeks later, he took her home with him, and they flew against all directions of wind as his red and black motorcycle (_newly repaired_, he promised) sped through the highway.

To home.

To a future together.

To a love that she believed with all her might would never, ever die.

And when she murmured in his ear that she loved him back and that she'd battled through surrender and death and despair for him and _only_ him, his answering smile was all the confirmation she needed that their story was going to be a long and happy one.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I loved writing it. Thanks again so much for giving it a chance!**

**Reviews would be heavenly.**


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